


Before we fell, like Icarus, undone

by skeleton_twins



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:31:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9842588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: Jim Gordon is a broken man, no longer the good cop destined to clean up the streets of Gotham. He's haunted by his past mistakes, seeking redemption for his fallen soul. He realizes that his only chance of absolution is to save Oswald Cobblepot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to thekeyholder for the beta but also encouraging me to finish this fic. I honestly don't think I would have gotten it done without her encouragement.

Jim Gordon was terrified of falling.

 

He had been so preoccupied with climbing. Climbing so far up the ladder that he could separate himself from everyone else, above the other cops in the GCPD, higher than all the criminals, even above the image of his father’s indisputable reputation Jim had constructed as a child of him being a good and honest man.

 

It wasn’t about power. That wasn’t what drove Jim. It was his fear of slipping up, of giving in to Gotham’s ways of contorting what morals a person had into a twisted, unrecognizable shape.

 

They warn him that no one stays a hero for long in Gotham, but Jim Gordon took it as a challenge. He had a mission: to save this city from the poison that washed over the streets, from the rumbling ground that threatened to split open and swallow them whole.

 

Somewhere along the way he had slipped. He should have realized he’d been falling for a while now, but he’d been too distracted with saving everyone else. Too busy trying to save the crumbling remnants of what was left of his childhood dream of how Gotham was and could still be. Too distracted to save his own soul.

When Jim Gordon landed, he crashed hard onto the pavement, splintering the concrete beneath him. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and blood hit the back of his teeth and his ribs cracked under the force of the fall.

 

The fall left more than broken bones, it had ripped a hole in Jim’s pride, left an imprint - a shadow of the man that he once was, was proud to be. During the tumble, his badge had unfastened from his belt and Jim was unable to pick it back up. He’d lost too much and was now no longer the man he had been - no longer the honest cop determined to clean up Gotham. He’d lost that title.

 

Jim wonders if he really ever had it in the first place, or he had just deluded himself into believing he did.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
The ticket of not dwelling on his past mistakes that led him here, Jim finds, is the the bottom of a whiskey bottle. The more he drinks, the more he forgets, so he takes a drink. _Being framed by Nygma._ Another shot. _Losing the baby._ Another shot. _Leaving Oswald behind in Arkham._ He refills the shotglass until his hands are trembling and whiskey is spilling over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Jim tries to pinpoint the exact second where he stumbled, and it all comes down to one twitch of a finger on a trigger. The bullet firing from his gun chamber and into Theo Galavan's chest had started it all. The moment when the darkness that purrs underneath Gotham’s streets lifted and entwined itself around Jim’s heart, pumping black smoke into his soul. Jim wishes he could say that Cobblepot was at fault, that he had swiped at Jim’s legs, causing him to lose balance on his ladder. But Jim couldn’t lay blame on Oswald. The man had simply stood beside him that night, not saying a single word, waiting expectantly like an old friend on the other side as Jim came up from being submerged under Gotham’s abyss.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jim Gordon is not the same man he was, he doesn’t try to be. So when a strange man comes knocking on his door, asking him to locate his missing sister with a wad of cash, Jim doesn’t hesitate accepting his case. Booze isn’t cheap and he needs the money.

 

 

* * *

 

 

No booze in the world could drown out the hallucinations the Red Queen brings. Nothing could. The ghostly figures swarming from his own subconscious and guilt dances around his skull, reminding him of all the people he’s let down. Tonight, he saw Oswald Cobblepot, not as the man he’s become, the new mayor, but as the broken figure, the lost soul he left behind at Arkham. The spectral reminder of Jim Gordon’s biggest mistake.

 

_Never leave your unit behind._ The ghost had whispered.

 

But Jim Gordon had.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It weighs on him. The words from the illusion. Everywhere he goes, he hears them, blowing among the wind that scatter the golden and red leaves. Jim Gordon has been drowning, suffocating in the shadows for too long now, but wants to feel the sun on his skin once more. The only way he thinks of being able to get to see the yellow warmth breaking across the sky, through the cloudy grey mist that hangs upon Gotham, is to right his wrongs.

 

Maybe it could bring forth a new dawn, maybe it could save his soul.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seeking out Cobblepot is easy, as if the path is a familiar and often traveled one. He needs no guidance nor direction, his footsteps somehow know the way, like the route to Oswald Cobblepot has bled through him, sinking and affixing itself inside his brain. All Jim has to do is follow the shadows.

 

Jim doesn’t plan a speech, doesn’t know what exactly to say when he arrives on Cobblepot’s doorsteps. His feet led him here, but he isn’t prepared when one of Oswald’s men ushers him inside. He’s told to wait in the sitting room, that Cobblepot will be with him shortly.

 

He waits, tries to come up with something to say, but when Oswald arrives, his mouth turns dry and undeveloped words seem to get lodged in his throat.

 

His hand shakes, lifting the teacup and bringing it closer to his mouth. He doesn’t take a sip, just lets the rim rest against his lips. Too afraid that any movement will cause the liquid to spill over.

 

Jim’s met with quizzical eyes, a hint of worry laced through the soft shades of green. It’s too much. Oswald shouldn’t be gazing at him with concern. His looks should be scolding and seething with loathing.

 

After a while, Oswald breaks the silence. “Why are you here, Jim?”

 

_I want to save you._

 

“I don’t know,” Jim says instead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

These occurrences become more frequent. Jim finds himself chasing alongside shadows, running away from his guilty conscience, and straight towards the criminal who thrives in them. Standing in locked rooms and behind closed doors. There, alone with Cobblepot, allows Jim to forget his misdeeds. His transactions becoming nonexistent, lost in Oswald’s burning gaze. In these moments, Jim can pretend that his nights don’t haunt him. He forgets the voice pleading and begging Jim to rescue him.

 

He thinks it’s enough. Spending time, alone, with the gangster will be sufficient in reminding Jim that Oswald’s safe, free from the prison that Jim forced him in.

 

That is, until, they’re sitting together in Cobblepot’s office, Jim’s listening to Oswald talking, but Jim’s having trouble hearing what he’s saying.

 

It’s a trick. A momentary illusion. A way to mask his guilt. Once again, Jim feels like he’s falling. Like water is pouring over him, rushing and filling up his lungs. He’s struggling to breathe.

 

“Jim…”

 

Oswald’s speaking, but his words are muffled, garbled.

 

_“Thank God you're here.”_

 

“Are you alright?”

Jim watches Oswald’s mouth move, but the words don’t seem to match; all he hears is the past slipping through the cracks.

 

_“You have to help me. They're torturing me.”_  
  
A cold sweat breaks across his forehead, and Jim’s gasping, tightly squeezing his eyes shut as the image of Oswald donning black and white strips and getting dragged away while Jim just stood there, watching frozen, helpless, came back to haunt him.

 

_“You owe me, Jim Gordon. I lied for you!”_

 

Jim’s brought back to the present when a cool touch brushes across his forehead. Arkham’s gates begin melting away, and Oswald’s office replacing where the dark asylum stood. Jim looks up, vision blurry, at Oswald standing over him, concern disrupting the smooth alabaster skin, drawing deep lines and wrinkles.

 

Jim’s mouth falls opens as the slender fingers drag over his flushed skin.

 

“You’re feverish,” Oswald murmurs.

 

He’s falling once more, his wings are aflame, burning. Darkness consumes his vision, the last thing he sees is Oswald, with his arms reaching out to catch Jim before he loses consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

 

In his dreams, Jim’s flying. He had this dream before, and he’s aware of what happens next. The descent into frigid waters. He falls. He always falls.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jim thinks he’s floating, but there’s no water, no waves lapping against his skin. Instead, he’s lying on a bed, on top of silk sheets. A layer of perspiration coats his forehead. He moves to sit, the bed not his own, but stops when he catches sight of Oswald standing across the room.

 

Sunlight is streaming through the window, shining directly on the gangster as he stands there and peers outside the glass, wearing a pensive and almost tranquil expression.

 

Oswald is undisturbed, bathed in the sun’s warmth. Shadows cling to Oswald, and yet he doesn’t live in darkness. The sun still touches him.

Jim stares, the scene before him looks as if it’s a painting with each stroke precise. It belongs in an art museum where it can be preserved and untouched by Jim.

 

Oswald looks beautiful.

 

His breath is stolen when Oswald turns over, feeling the weight of Jim’s gaze, to look at the detective.

 

“Ah, you’re awake. You gave me quite the scare.”

 

Jim stands, finds himself gravitating towards Oswald. His feet stop right before Jim reaches the sun’s exposure, still hidden in the shadows. Jim doesn’t think he deserves to stand next to Oswald in the light.

 

“You had quite a nasty fever. You ought to take more care of yourself, James.” Oswald lifts his hand to check his temperature, but Jim catches his wrist, stopping it before Oswald could touch him.

 

Oswald’s eyes are bright, the sun hitting them directly, disappointment shining through the flecks of gold and green. His hand drops back down to his side. When Jim notices his averted gaze and frown, it feels as if a knife is piercing his lungs.

 

Another mistake tallied against Jim.

 

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t apologize for his harsh action, even though he knows he should, he should be apologizing for a lot of things.

 

“What are you doing here, Jim? I don’t understand… Why do you keep coming back?”

 

The serene expression from earlier is gone. Dejection hangs heavy on his features, laced with resignation that makes inhaling hurt.

 

“I should go.” Jim says.

 

_Stay._

 

His feet move even though he wants to stand right where he is, in front of Oswald. Words are bubbling to the surface, but none escapes, trapped inside.

 

“Here I thought manipulating people was my forte.” Oswald’s voice penetrates through the quiet.

 

Jim halts right before he reaches the door.

 

Oswald hasn’t moved, still looking out the window as he continued, “But you’re quite skilled at it, Jim. The way you weave yourself into people’s lives, tricking them into thinking you care about them. You can’t keep doing this, Jim. I can’t...”

 

Jim’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth when Oswald cuts off, takes a moment to recollect himself.

 

“If you leave, it will be for the last time. Don’t come back.”

 

Silence falls between them once more, the air is thick, suffocating Jim from all the words unspoken.

 

“I wasn’t…” Jim starts, “I wasn’t manipulating you.”

 

Oswald spins around to face him, angry, “Then why do you keep returning, Jim? If not to gain my trust to later exploit it.”

 

“I needed you!” The words finally break through. “I need your forgiveness.”

 

Confusion takes over Oswald’s features, ire melting away. “My forgiveness, what are you talking about?”

 

“Arkham.” Jim’s voice breaks. There had been a weight, guilt chained to Jim’s ankle, constantly tugging him down. The wall has cracked and everything Jim’s been wanting to say pours out of him.

 

“I left you, Oswald “Jim’s tired, too tired to keep his eyes open, or from keeping his knees from hitting the floor. “I left you behind in Arkham.”

 

When he feels the hand on his shoulder, Jim shudders with relief, buries his face into Oswald waistcoat.

 

“I’m sorry, Oswald. I was supposed to save you.”  

 

Fingers runs through Jim’s hair as Oswald holds him close. “It’s alright, Jim. You already did.”

 

 

* * *

 

It’s a distinct feeling. Absolution. Jim doesn’t climb any higher, doesn’t drown either. Instead, he finds the thin line in-between, where he doesn’t fly too close to the sun nor the ocean. He’s able to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin again, able to let his toes skirt along the water when necessary.

 

The shadowy hand that reaches out from the dark is a welcome one. Jim takes Oswald’s hand in his, anchoring him. Together, they walk in both the light and dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sylvia Plath poem: "Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun."
> 
> Full poem can be found here: http://www.internal.org/Sylvia_Plath/Doom_of_Exiles


End file.
